Bath House of Pain

In honor of Halloween which doesn't really exist here, seven of us dudes reserved a public banya. What's scarier than having this man's naked body permanently imprinted on your visual memory?

Just kidding Micah, you're an adonis.

It was my third banya. For neophytes, a banya is basically a "wet" sauna. That is, after you simmer in your own sweat for a while you go to an adjacent room to douse yourself in cold water. Over the summer I visited the banya out at the dacha, a small one with just a changing room and a combined washroom/sauna. Imagine a shed with two levels of wooden slats for seating, and a small hole in the ground to let the used water run off. The Halloween banya was a bathhouse mansion by comparison - there was the sauna itself, a couple showers, a small swimming pool, a pool table and a room with TV for relaxing. They had shot glasses too, but BYOV.

The most memorable banya was two weeks ago when I went to visit my friend Julia in Tver. We had spent the day before at a village wedding, which meant we started drinking vodka at breakfast, "So we'll have a good mood." I'll leave it at that. But the next day at breakfast Misha (Julia's husband) explained how the banya would help us sweat out the alcohol. "You can drink five shots, spend 15 minutes in the heat and be ready to drive," he explained while packing the car. Then he threw a shotgun on the stack of towels and handed me a size 8 cartridge. "For wild boars."

We drove out to Misha's country house with two of his tattooed friends. It was a secluded hovel with a fireplace and not much else, but there was a large three-room banya and a big table outside for dumplings, chocolate and vodka. After toasting to international friendship, we stripped down in the changing room. I started to go into the sauna when Misha said "Wait" and put a pointy, gray wool cap on my head. I'm still not entirely sure what this was for. To protect my hair? To keep in the heat? Maybe when you're sweating naked in front of three other grown men, you need to preserve your dignity by looking like a Napoleonic cavalry officer.

Banya's are often done in stages, three rounds of sweating and bathing with breaks to drink and stand outside in between. Round one was enjoyable. As the guest, I was offered one of the upper spots to recline in. "Lie down," Misha said. Then trying to be hospitable he said in English, "This is total relax." Ten minutes later we were standing outside in the dark, towels on, drinking Baltika and talking about Putin ("A product of the system," he said). In retrospect, I think this was how I had imagined the banya experience.

Until round two. I will never forget the smell of boiling beer. When you pour a can of Baltika 7 over hot coals - as Misha now did - the steam it produces feels like someone is injecting molten hops into your sinus cavity. It is oppressive, suffocating, and wheaty. Luckily, I was sporting that woolen fedora which I used to cover my face. "No, no," Misha said, "breathe it in. It's good for the lungs." The others were stone-faced with their eyes closed, like they were either trying not to cough or were attempting to get high from the vaporized alcohol.

We took a break. Sat by the fire, ate, drank beer straight from the can.

Round three. As a general life rule I do not take advice from a naked man, especially one wielding birch branches. So when Misha told me to lie down on my stomach with my hands at my sides it was with reluctance that I did so. Travelers will be familiar with the concept of oppressive hospitality - the overbearing hostess who wants to feed you too much, the excitable acquaintance who wants to show you the town when you only want to sleep. Sometimes it's easier to go along, to placate your inebriated host with lashing instruments. "Total relax," I thought and lay my head on a small pile of hay. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him soak the branches in water and shake away the loose leaves.

Pretty soon they were flailing away like that scene from the Passion. "It's good for the circulation," he reassured me. After two minutes or so he said, "Turn over." This time my hat wasn't covering my face.

After they were done, Misha told me to to keep lying down for sixty seconds while they left. I don't know if it was the thrashing, the beer steam or just the 180-degree heat but I found existence very uncomfortable. At "60" I was out the door and pouring the coldest bucket of water I could find over my head. When I toweled off and picked the remaining birch bits from the backs of my knees, I went outside to watch the stars spin. Back inside, Misha pointed out that my entire body was blotchy with red streaks - "Good for your metabolism," he said.

We all had one more shot. I laughed with a grin that said "I know there's a shotgun around here somewhere."